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Authors: Phil Rowan

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BOOK: Dark Clouds
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‘Don’t move!’ an excited cop with a Heckler and Koch machine pistol shouts when I appear at the top of the stairs. There are others in the hallway and they’re ready to shoot if I do anything I shouldn’t. I’ve already got my arms stretched out, and I’m thinking of Mel Gibson playing the part of Christ before he gets crucified. Only I’m not on a movie set, and I nod co-operatively when a cop beckons me down the stairs.

I’ve ripped the sleeve of my bathrobe. I feel exposed with my arms in the air. I’m still trying to give out the impression that I’m cool and together. It’s difficult, but when I reach the hallway, I ask the armed, steel-helmeted cops what they want.

‘Face the wall – now!’ one of them commands.

The hands that frisk me are cold and rough, and when I’m allowed to turn around I see a serious looking Afro-Caribbean guy in the living room doorway. He’s wearing a decent suit, shirt and tie. He seems OK. I’m convinced that when he was a younger man, he went to church with a sound Christian woman, most probably his mother.

‘Rudi Flynn?’

‘Yes, sir – ’

‘I’m Earl Connors,’ the black police guy says. ‘I need to speak with you … maybe downstairs.’

There are already several uniformed and plainclothes cops in the living room. One of them has switched on my laptop and another is going through the files on my desk. I want to protest, but my visitors won’t be deflected, so I stay quiet and move towards the steps that lead down to the kitchen. A cop with a machine pistol follows. He’s got a glazed expression and retreats to a space by the fridge when Earl, who looks like he’s in charge, sits down at the kitchen table.

‘Do you know why we’re here,’ he asks.

I haven’t a clue. But I don’t think Harry, the science fiction writer who owns the house, is going to be too pleased when he discovers what the police have done to his original Georgian front door.

‘You have Islamic contacts,’ Earl says. His tone is polite, matter-of-fact. It’s a normal question from an educated officer who’s just doing his job; routine stuff that shouldn’t give an innocent person any cause for concern. Only I can feel the goose pimples on my arms and I know that sensitive, stress-related glands will soon start swelling up around my neck.

‘Yes, of course,’ I answer like it’s all perfectly normal. ‘I work as a journalist, so I meet many different people. Just now, with everything that’s happening, I have to speak with a lot of Muslims … well – you know how it is, I’m sure.’

The ripped bathrobe is making me feel uncomfortable, but I’m trying to give the impression that I’m in control. I haven’t done anything wrong. OK – there are still some parking and congestion charge tickets for Harry the house-owner’s car on the hall table. I hadn’t been completely sober on the few occasions I used the clapped out VW Passat, but my priority is to airbrush Khalad and Rashid right out of the picture, as in: ‘
I don’t know any activists, officer, and that’s the god’s honest truth. Sure – I’ve spoken with a few Islamic persons, but it’s always been about the situation generally around the world …and I can assure you, Mister Policeman, sir, that the word nuclear has never been mentioned in any conversation I’ve ever had with potential aggressors.

‘We’re working closely with the Americans at the moment, Mr Flynn,’ Earl says and I nod seriously like I think this is a really good idea. I mean, we’re allies and there’s always been a strong bond between Washington and London. Many Brits aren’t too happy about it, but UK Prime Ministers have usually been welcome in the States. The present one’s a bit distant, but there are photographs of his predecessor riding out on a horse with my President.

Earl’s OK. I’m sure of that. He’s a solid guy and I’m starting to relax with him when a cop appears in the kitchen entrance.

‘Sir – ’

‘Yes, Robson.’

We found some e-mails on the computers.’

This asshole is definitely keen and pleased with what he’s downloaded. There are half a dozen pieces of paper, but it doesn’t take Earl long to get through them.

‘OK,’ he says when he’s passed the printouts back to his assistant. ‘You’d better start at the top of the house and work down.’

‘But the furniture,’ I protest. The place is full of old chairs and chests of drawers that go back a couple of hundred years. It’ll be down to me if they get scratched or fall apart in a police search.

‘Don’t worry,’ Earl says. ‘We’re obliged to take reasonable care … so if there’s any damage, you’ll be covered by our insurance.’

‘And what about the computers and my e-mails?’ I ask. There’s a screech in my voice and I’m losing it. ‘This really is an unwarranted intrusion … you have no right – ’

‘I’m sorry, sir. We need to check the hard drives, and I’m going to have to take you into custody.’

‘You’re arresting me?’

‘Yes – so if you’d like to go upstairs with the officer, you can get dressed.’

I could let it all out about Rashid and how he wants to cross over. It’s not a problem. Earl is already on his feet though, and I’m stammering incoherently when the guard cop steps forward. His biceps are rippling and he’s excited. He’s ready for action. He’s closing in as my mouth opens and shuts. The veins on his neck are throbbing and his index finger is stroking the trigger of his Heckler and Koch machine pistol.

*  *  *  *  *

I’m handcuffed in the back of a windowless van, and I need a lawyer. I don’t believe there is anything incriminating on either my laptop or the house computer, but Khalad and Rashid could be embarrassing contacts. ‘
We’re not terrorists, Rudi. You can be sure of that. But some of our fellow Islamists have strong feelings about what they want to do to you
.’  If I’m seen to be even tangentially in touch with guys who are planning to irradiate Western cities, I’m in trouble. Prosecutors on both sides of the pond could, I’m sure, conjure up treasonable offences under the US
Patriot Act
and whatever the Brit equivalent is.

No one wants to take my fingerprints or check my details at Paddington Green. Instead, they take me to a dank cell that smells of urine. There’s a mattress with a blanket on the floor and a toilet without a seat in the opposite corner. I doze intermittently on the soiled blanket with thoughts flitting between the stockade at Guantanamo and mushroom clouds in St James’s Park when I hear boots in the corridor and my cell door opens.

‘Rudi Flynn?’ a bald cop asks.

‘Yes – ’

‘Come on then.’

He’s big, with a scar on his neck and we don’t talk as we walk to a lift. He stands between me and the door and we seem to move quickly up through the building. The sun’s coming in through an East facing window when we get out. I can see rooftops all around us and there’s a fitted carpet on the floor. My escort knocks respectfully. He then opens a large solid wood door and motions me inside.

Earl Connors is sitting behind a glass-topped boardroom table in a large, bright room. Beside him, there’s a woman in her late thirties or early forties with designer jeans and boots and a casual shirt. Her features are sharp, with an interesting triangle between her cheekbones and chin. I can’t see her as a cop, but her eyes stay with me as I take in the red and blonde hair spikes that must have cost a few bucks at some talked about salon.

‘Hi Rudi,’ she says when the door closes behind me. ‘I’m Carla Hirsch … I’m on secondment from Homeland Security in Washington. Earl and I are working together, and we’d like to talk to you.’

Her voice is Ivy League, East Coast American, with maybe a hint of one of the Southern states when she rolls out her words. She has light eye make-up and a subtle gloss on full lips. But she’s very together, and when she looks at me, I feel like I’ve been caught in the headlights of a high-powered Federal vehicle.

‘I don’t know why I’m here,’ I say lamely. ‘I want to see a lawyer … I’m not discussing anything until that’s agreed – OK.’

I’m making a reasonable point. It’s a fundamental principle of Brit law, surely. You can’t question someone without a lawyer. And I may be ringing bells, because Carla Hirsch is nodding like she understands while Earl Connors coughs.

 ‘You don’t need to worry about any of that,’ she says with a dismissive wave. ‘We see you primarily as a friend, Rudi: a person who can help us. Only there are matters we need to clear up. So why don’t you sit down and relax.’

She’s pointing to a chair in front of the glass-topped table, and I do as she asks.

‘You saw Rashid Kumar last night at the House of Commons?’

‘Yes, we met – briefly.’ There’s no point in denying it.

‘He seems to have disappeared, Rudi. He didn’t go home last night, and the Albanian doctor guy he lives with is concerned.’

Oh – no. The jihadists have got to the Kashmiri before he could cross over. I’m feeling for him. He’s a sensitive guy with forbidden inclinations and his experience with the hardball players is going to be painful.

‘He was troubled when I saw him.’ I’m blurting it out. ‘He wanted me to put him in touch with someone he could talk to.’

‘What about?’ Carla Hirsch asks.

I’m right between the cross wires of her assault weapon. ‘
You talk, baby – or you’re dead meat.

‘He has contacts with Islamic activists here in London. He believes they are planning something.’

‘What?’

I’m pausing for breath, but I can feel this woman’s eyes screwing relentlessly into my head.

‘He thought it might be nuclear … and he didn’t want to get involved.’

There. I’ve delivered. I’ve come clean on Rashid, although I’m holding back on Khalad for the moment.

*  *  *  *  *

‘When you were at Berkeley,’ Carla Hirsch says, ‘you were friendly with Michael Sharif. You both went on to work in New York, and I assume you met his younger sister, Sulima.’

I’m not ready for this. Have I been in the frame while living in London? Am I on file at Langley or in Washington? Does my President think I’m colluding with the bad guys? Michael Sharif was a fun guy at Berkeley. He had a place on the coast where we all went to party at weekends. I first met his sister, Sulima, in New York. She was beautiful but a little shy, and she was friendly with Faria, the girl I got involved with who died on 9/11.

‘Rudi?’

‘Yes – ’

‘You’ve stayed in touch with the Sharifs?’

Sort of. I saw Sulima last month. We had lunch in Covent Garden. There was sadness behind her smile and I thought something was bothering her.

‘Did you know that Michael Sharif is now calling himself Mohammed?’ Carla Hirsch asks and I nod. Sulima mentioned it when we parted on the cobbled piazza in Covent Garden. She shrugged like it was an aberration. ‘
But you will come to Geneva, Rudi …it would be good if you could visit us.

Earl Connors is rotating a gold signet ring around his little finger. He’s definitely the junior partner in this team, but I’m getting a flicker of
simpatico
in Carla Hirsch’s eyes.

‘It would be helpful if you could touch base with Sharif,’ she says.

‘Why?’

‘Because we think he may be funding people who want to hit the West hard, Rudi ... and this time it could be nuclear.’

I’ve been mentally shutting my old buddy out ever since his sister Sulima told me that  Mike was now calling himself Mohammed. In one sense it’s understandable, and it’s not a problem. We’ve polarised a bit culturally since the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. Mike’s a Muslim, so he wants to identify in a meaningful way with his people.

‘What would you want me to do if we met up again?’ I ask.

‘Just chill. Chat about your time together at Berkeley and New York. OK – you haven’t seen each other for a while, but you were good friends. Sharif has set up a foundation in Geneva that offers scholarship funding for bright young Muslims who want to go to our best universities. You could show interest in this – it would be a good starting point.’

No – I don’t want to get involved with ‘Mohammed’ Sharif. Not even tangentially.

‘We’ll fix you an interview with a Swiss UN guy for Friday,’ Carla says. ‘You can talk about climate change and poverty in Africa. But we’d like you to call your buddy now and tell him you’re arriving tomorrow.’

‘It’s not possible.’

‘Yeah – why?’

‘Because I’ve got to go to Paris,’ I tell her, and the palms of my hands are moist. ‘I’ve made commitments to editors in New York to file on the bombing at the Sacre Coeur yesterday. If I don’t deliver, I don’t get paid … and I need the money.’

It’s a decent try, but I’ve already missed my flight to Charles de Gaulle and the toe on one of Ms Hirsch’s snakeskin boots is pointing towards my crotch. I see it as an exocet waiting to eliminate any trace of uncertainty, and I know I’ve had it.

‘Our requirements will have to take precedence, Rudi. I’m sure you understand this,’ she tells me. ‘The situation is serious and we need your assistance.’

I’ve got an ailing relative I could mention. He’s got cancer; he’s going to die. It’s all verifiable. But Earl’s taken my mobile from a large brown envelope and he’s sliding it across the glass topped table. Carla Hirsch has uncrossed her long, slim legs. She’s moved the threatening boot tip back onto the floor, but her hard eyes are suddenly moist.

‘You lost a friend … a loved one … on 9/11,’ she says and I nod.

‘My father also fell with the North Tower on that day,’ she confides, and I’m aware of tears in my own eyes. For it’s not a loss too many people share.

I’m thinking of a couple of complete strangers maybe standing together in the same lift powering up through the centre of the World Trade Centre. Faria Bailey, the woman I loved and wanted to marry: a bright and sassy young Syrian American lawyer with her life ahead of her, and Carla Hirsch’s considerably older father. A first generation German, Jewish banker, I’m thinking. He and Faria could have stood beside one another. They might even have had some early morning ‘
hey – how are you doing …and isn’t it a great day?
’ chat or eye contact. But they both perished at the same time, or within minutes of each other. So Agent Hirsch has a very personal interest in her mission. She isn’t going to be deflected, and I know I’ll be in serious trouble if I waver or refuse to help.

BOOK: Dark Clouds
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